Aziraphale was wandering through the forest with his mate, Crowley, the late afternoon sun dripping through the canopy in golden threads. The air smelled of moss and wild berries, sweet and earthy, and the ground was soft beneath their feet, littered with pine needles and fallen leaves. They had been searching for ripe berries for nearly an hour—Aziraphale humming quietly to himself, while Crowley trailed behind, long tail swishing lazily, muttering about bugs and brambles.

It was peaceful—almost idyllic—until the quiet was broken.

A faint, fragile sound drifted through the trees. At first, Aziraphale thought it might’ve been the wind, but then it came again—thin, tremulous, unmistakably distressed. A cry. The kind that pierced through bone and stirred something ancient and protective within him. He stopped mid-step, his wings twitching. “Crowley,” he said softly, tilting his head. “Do you hear that?”

Crowley, who had been trying to shake a burr from his sleeve, lifted his head and frowned. “Sounds like trouble,” he muttered, though his eyes glimmered with concern.

But Aziraphale was already moving—his basket forgotten in the underbrush as he followed the sound through the dense tangle of ferns and low-hanging branches. His heart thudded as the cries grew louder, sharper, until he emerged into a small clearing. There, on the damp forest floor, lay a fledgling.

The little thing was pitiful—their feathers still soft and downy, wings too small to lift their own weight. They shivered in the shadow of a gnarled root, mouth parting in weak, desperate gasps. Their tiny body trembled with each sob, and a few broken twigs nearby suggested they had fallen from a nest high above.

Aziraphale’s breath caught. His heart swelled with sorrow and urgency all at once. “Oh, you poor, precious thing…” he whispered, kneeling beside it. His fingers trembled as he reached out, the urge to comfort warring with the fear of frightening them further.